A Necessary Evil

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘Have you ever met an anthropologist before?’

  ‘Not since Cambridge, sir.’

  ‘I knew one once,’ I said. An old fellow by the name of Hogg who’d spent years living with a tribe in the Amazon. He gave a talk at a Salvation Army Hall in Whitechapel, illustrated it with a dozen odd photographs of tribal women looking like day-trippers from the Garden of Eden. There was only one photograph of the men of the tribe. It made me question the motivation for why certain men decide to enter the field.’

  ‘I best go get dressed,’ said Surrender-not.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder.

  I closed the door behind him and considered another drink. In the end I decided against. There were a lot of questions about Sambalpore that I wanted to ask over dinner and it was best to keep a clear head. The clock was ticking, after all. Unless we could find out who really was responsible for Adhir’s murder, I feared Miss Bidika’s fate could well be worse than the picture I’d painted for Surrender-not.

  SEVENTEEN

  Emily Carmichael was a good-looking woman. Tall, blonde and with a flighty air that made me wonder how she’d ended up the wife of a diplomat.

  She took charge at the dining table, personally showing her guests to their respective positions, and we sat down to dinner as a clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven. Other than the ornate fireplace, the room was simply and incongruously furnished – was there anywhere in the world less in need of a hearth? – and dominated by a mahogany dining table large enough to seat a regimental band and polished to a shine. On the wall hung the obligatory portrait of George V, and from the ceiling, a gently swaying wooden punkah. The only light came from a dozen candles placed in three candelabras situated at intervals along the table, which cast flickering shadows and gave the room an intimate air.

  Two servants entered, both dressed in plain white kurtas and both barefoot. One carried a large silver tureen which he placed in the middle of the table, before ladling soup into bowls, while the other uncorked a bottle of white wine.

  There were six of us in all, seated at liberal distances from one another: Carmichael at the head, his wife at the opposite end, Surrender-not and myself on one side, with the accountant, Golding, and the anthropologist, Portelli, on the other.

  The accountant looked to be in his early forties, a thin man with short dark hair, neatly parted and flecked grey at the temples. Round, tortoiseshell glasses framed eyes that looked shaped by a lifetime of peering at ledgers. He picked at a tiny speck of something on the lapel of his dinner jacket before placing it on the table and wiping his hands on his napkin.

  The anthropologist, by contrast, was a tanned, handsome fellow with short sandy hair and the look of a professor on sabbatical. He leaned forward and stuck a hand across the table for me to shake. ‘Portelli,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Italian?’ I asked, as a servant filled my wine glass.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ he replied in impeccable English. ‘Maltese.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Mrs Carmichael. ‘I can’t imagine there are many Maltese running around India.’

  I noticed her flawless complexion for the first time. As pale as milk, it suggested the most rigorous of efforts to stay out of the sun – no small miracle in these parts.

  ‘You would be surprised, madam,’ replied Portelli. ‘There are a number of Maltese trading families in both Bombay and Calcutta. And it may also surprise you to learn that there is similarly a small but vibrant community of Indian traders, mostly from Sindh province, who have made their home in Malta.’

  It may indeed have come as a surprise to Mrs Carmichael, but judging by the speed at which she changed the subject, she didn’t seem particularly interested by it. Instead, she took a sip of her wine and turned to me.

  ‘So tell me, Captain Wyndham, what news of Calcutta? What are the ladies wearing these days?’

  As far as I could tell, the women in Calcutta were wearing pretty much the same as they’d worn last year, and probably the year before that. The whole mass of petticoats, corsets, ankle-length dresses and flannel underwear that our women insisted on wearing, even in the stupefying heat of summer, in temperatures that left men dumbstruck, seemed like madness to me. They could have learned a thing or two from the native women, but of course, that was out of the question. We were British after all. We had standards. And so, our women, like the rest of us, went half-mad in the heat while wearing enough layers to allow one to comfortably take tea halfway up the Himalayas.

  ‘Much the same as last season, I would imagine,’ I replied.

  ‘I simply adore Calcutta,’ she gushed. ‘The theatre, the parties -not to mention the shopping. We are so cut off out here that sometimes I feel that if it were not for the rare visits from travellers such as yourselves, I should die of boredom. We receive the Calcutta and Delhi papers, of course, but they’re generally four or five days old by the time they reach here, and it’s hardly the same thing as being there.’

  ‘Talking of Delhi,’ interjected her husband, ‘I sent off a telegram to the India Office informing them of your safe arrival.’ He seemed in ebullient mood.

  Surrender-not and I exchanged glances.

  And was there any reply?’ I enquired.

  He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t expecting any.’

  Mrs Carmichael turned to me. ‘Derek tells me you’re investigating the crown prince’s murder, Captain. How exciting,’ she beamed. ‘You must tell us all about it. Sambalpore is usually such a sleepy little place. Nothing interesting ever happens here. Derek says they’ve arrested the schoolmistress, that Bidika woman who always seems to have a bee in her bonnet about something or other. I can’t imagine she’s responsible, though.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ she said, stirring her soup, ‘for a start, I’ve met the woman. She may be many things, but she’s not a murderess. As for the Yuvraj, I’m almost glad he’s gone. Insufferable little man. He never had a good word to say about Derek – or many other people, for that matter. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife had him killed.’

  ‘His wife?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘Now, Emily,’ said Carmichael sternly, ‘let’s not cast aspersions.’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘I’d be interested to hear Mrs Carmichael’s thoughts on the matter.’

  Carmichael shot his wife a look which, if it was meant to cow her, failed miserably. I got the impression she wasn’t the type of woman who was easily cowed by anyone, least of all her husband.

  ‘Oh, come on now, Derek,’ she said brusquely, ‘it’s hardly a secret. You told me the whole court knows about it.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘Why, his affair, of course.’

  ‘The Yuvraj was having an affair?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said with more conviction than anyone should when making such accusations without first-hand proof. ‘Right here in Sambalpore, too.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Carmichael,’ said Surrender-not, looking at her as though she was postulating differential calculus and he was having trouble following, ‘I don’t understand how the Yuvraj could have an affair. His father has a harem. Surely any woman he takes a shine to simply becomes a bride or a concubine?’

  Mrs Carmichael took a decent sip of wine and warmed to her theme. ‘Things aren’t quite so simple.’ She grinned. ‘You see the lady in question isn’t some local village girl, or even a high-caste princess. No, our Yuvraj found himself a white woman, and a memsahib no less.’ She laughed conspiratorially. ‘She goes by the name of Katherine Pemberley and they say he’s besotted with her, that he was going to take her as his second wife. Can you imagine it, Captain? I could understand it if she was some common, working-class girl, like a waitress or that trapeze artist from Tooting that the Maharaja once bought a Daimler for, but this is a respectable woman from a good family. Derek says her father’s an officer in the Admiralty. The notion that such a woman would have an affair
with a native . . . Well, it beggars belief.’

  ‘He was a prince, though, madam,’ interjected Portelli.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she replied, ‘but still . . .’

  ‘I doubt the royal family were particularly thrilled either,’ said Surrender-not drily.

  ‘What?’ said Mrs Carmichael, shooting Surrender-not a glance that seemed part irritation and part incomprehension.

  ‘It’s just that I’d imagine they’d find it hard to maintain the purity of their divine bloodline when the Yuvraj was involved with a white woman,’ he said defensively.

  Mrs Carmichael seemed mollified somewhat. ‘I suppose that’s possible. The Maharaja can be funny that way, especially given the curse.’

  ‘Curse?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s nothing but stuff and nonsense,’ said Carmichael. ‘You shouldn’t trouble our guests with these ridiculous superstitions, Emily.’

  ‘The natives believe it,’ Mrs Carmichael fired back. ‘And it’s held true for as long as anyone can remember.’

  ‘What exactly is it?’ I asked.

  The Carmichaels exchanged a glance, but neither said anything further. It was the accountant, Golding, who filled the silence.

  ‘They say there is a curse upon the royal household,’ he said. ‘The Curse of Sambalpore. It dates back several centuries to a time when the Maharaja’s forebears were warrior kings. The details, though, are sketchy.’

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ said Portelli the anthropologist. ‘The story goes that the then raja became besotted with the wife of the ruler of a neighbouring kingdom. There was an alliance between the two, and the raja invited his fellow ruler to a banquet at the old fort, but then drugged him and slew him, before invading his kingdom and bringing the man’s widow forcibly back to Sambalpore, where she was compelled to marry him. It is said that as the priest intoned the words of the marriage ceremony, the widowed rani cried out, calling down a curse upon the Sambalpori line for eternity.’

  ‘What sort of curse?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘That the wife of the ruler of Sambalpore shall be barren,’ he replied. ‘And so, bizarrely, it has proved.’

  ‘The current maharaja only inherited the throne because the wife of the previous ruler was barren. In turn, his own first wife, the First Maharani, has borne him no children. That is why he instituted the official practice of polygamy. Before him, the rulers of Sambalpore may have had concubines, but they did not take more than one wife. Both the late Yuvraj and his brother, Prince Punit, were born of the late Second Maharani, and little Prince Alok is the child of the Third Maharani, Devika. What’s more, the Maharaja has not only increased the number of wives, he has also vastly inflated the number of concubines in the royal harem.’

  ‘That much is true,’ scoffed Golding. ‘Our esteemed maharaja certainly has an eye for the ladies.’

  And the curse lives on,’ added Mrs Carmichael for good measure. ‘The Yuvraj’s wife hasn’t given him an heir either.’

  The servants entered and began clearing the detritus of the first course. I reflected on Mrs Carmichael’s words. Curse or no curse, her accusations, however glibly made, deserved to be investigated. A white woman, a lady no less, engaged in an affair with a native prince. It was the stuff of fiction, the tawdry, titillating staple of those penny romance novels sold on station platforms back home. Surely such things didn’t happen in real life?

  I took a sip of wine as the ramifications of such a relationship sunk in. As Surrender-not had pointed out, it would be as objectionable to Indian sentiments as it was to ours, and it would go a long way to explaining why religious fanatics might want to assassinate the prince. I’d have to speak to this Miss Pemberley. And soon.

  Dinner continued with more wine and more small talk. Mrs Carmichael had turned her attentions to Surrender-not, peppering him with questions ranging from the latest showings at the Rex cinema house to the domestic arrangements of the Lieutenant Governor and his wife. I felt sorry for the poor boy, but to his credit, he was making a decent fist of it, responding with monosyllabic replies to most of her questions, then really going for it when he got an easy one. It was the same technique he employed against off-spin bowling.

  ‘So what brings you to Sambalpore, Mr Portelli?’ I asked the anthropologist.

  ‘I’m researching the local tribal customs on behalf of the Royal Anthropological Institute,’ he replied. ‘I was on my way to Puri for the Rath Yatra, the seven-day festival of Lord Jagannath, but when I heard of the unfortunate demise of the Yuvraj, the opportunity to witness the funeral rites of a member of the royal family was too good to pass up. So I made my way here.’

  ‘Well, you will certainly have your fill of the Juggernaut cult here in Sambalpore,’ Mrs Carmichael interjected. ‘The First Maharani’s a devotee of that funny little heathen idol. She’s even consecrated a temple to him on the banks of the river. Very superstitious she is. Goodness knows why the Maharaja married her. I once heard someone at court say she was the daughter of a sweeper, if you can believe such a thing.’

  Portelli smiled to himself. ‘The kingdom of Sambalpore is intricately linked to the legend of Lord Jagannath. The oldest known image of him is carved into the rock in a cave near Sonepur, not far from here.’

  ‘So why do people associate Lord Jagannath with the town of Puri?’ asked Surrender-not.

  ‘For one thing, the largest temple dedicated to him is there,’ replied the anthropologist, ‘and the king of Puri is venerated as the keeper of the sacred temple. But Sambalpore is also central to Jagannath worship. As you may know, he is said to have passed through the kingdom, in the form of a pillar of wood along the Mahanadi River.’

  Portelli was warming to his subject, and it seemed worthwhile indulging him. After all, anything was better than having to listen to Mrs Carmichael droning on about the hardships of being a diplomat’s wife in an era of budget cuts.

  ‘Can you tell us more about the deity?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course!’ He beamed. ‘Jagannath – the name means “Lord of the Universe” – is considered to be an avatar of Vishnu the Protector, the second deity in the Hindu trinity of gods who are responsible for the creation, upkeep and destruction of the world.

  ‘And Mrs Carmichael is correct: Jagannath does look rather odd compared to most other Hindu deities. For a start, his idol is made of wood, while nearly all the others are fashioned from stone or metal. He is depicted as having overly large, round eyes, with stumps as hands and no legs. What’s more interesting is that there is no clear reference to him in the Vedas, the oldest of the Hindu scriptures, and he doesn’t appear in the classical Hindu pantheon. Indeed, it has been suggested that Lord Jagannath was originally a god of the forests, worshipped by the indigenous tribes of Orissa.’

  ‘What do you make of that, Surrender-not?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not a theory I’ve heard before, sir.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Portelli grinned. ‘I am actively researching the idea that he was the god of the tribals and only became incorporated into Hindu mythology when your ancestors, the invading Aryans, arrived in Orissa.’

  He went on to tell the tale of the Rath Yatra, the story of how the strange wooden god, with stumps for arms and even less for legs, was each year transported in a giant chariot pulled by thousands of devotees to his aunt’s house and then back again after a week.

  Mrs Carmichael couldn’t disguise her incredulity at the story, though what she thought more incredible: that a god would have no legs or that he would visit his aunt once a year was unclear. I too was sceptical, but if a god could appear as a burning bush then why not as a wooden stump? That, though, was the least of my concerns. The talk of Lord Jagannath had raised the spectre of something darker. Could it be that there really was a religious connection to the prince’s murder?

  ‘I wonder, Mr Portelli,’ I said, ‘if you may be able to help me with something else. Do you have an idea as to the significance of a certain marking that a holy
man might wear on his forehead? Two white lines, joined at the nose, on either side of a thinner, red line?’

  His face brightened. ‘You’re speaking of the Sricharanam,’ he said. ‘The mark of the followers of the god Vishnu.’

  My mind raced. The markings the assassin had worn on his forehead was the mark of the followers of Vishnu. The man had disappeared into the crowd of the Rath Yatra, the procession of Lord Jagannath, whom Portelli had just told us was an avatar of Vishnu. He’d also signed into the Hotel Yes Please under the name of Bala Bhadra, a play on the name of the deity’s brother, and now it seemed that Sambalpore was central to Jagannath mythology. That was a lot of coincidences — and I don’t believe in coincidences.

  We were on the fifth or sixth bottle of wine by the time dessert arrived. Mrs Carmichael had settled into a state of happy inebriation, and the rest of us weren’t far behind. From Carmichael’s calm acceptance of his wife’s condition, I took it that such an occurrence was probably not uncommon. In any case, who was I to judge? I imagined there was precious little for a young white woman who found herself marooned in Sambalpore to do of an evening other than to enjoy a drink or three. In her position I’d probably have done the same, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have stopped at the drink. Not if there was opium available.

  Golding and Portelli were discussing the arrangements for the Yuvraj’s funeral, which was scheduled for the following day.

  ‘Normally,’ said the anthropologist, ‘his eldest son would perform the funeral rites, but as he died childless, I imagine the duty will fall to his brother, Prince Punit.’

  ‘Not his father?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s possible.’ Portelli shrugged.

  His words pierced through Mrs Carmichael’s drunken haze. She suddenly looked up. ’I think that’s highly unlikely. The word is that the old man’s dying.’

  I turned to Carmichael for confirmation. ‘Is that true?’

  By now, he’d given up any attempt to prevent his wife from saying things that the India Office might not approve of. ‘There have been some rumours,’ he said quietly.